


Mirrors: The Premiere of Evil Timmy

by Fueledbychelle



Category: Unspecified Fandom
Genre: CMBYN - Freeform, Charmie, M/M, evil!timmy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 12:18:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13903875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fueledbychelle/pseuds/Fueledbychelle
Summary: A look into a relationship between Armie and Evil!Timmy, from two perspectives; past and present, featuring the ultimate downfall of their past relationship as well as the mirrored breaking point to their present relationship.





	1. Call Me a Safe Bet, I'm Betting I'm Not

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction, none of this happened. I don't own any of these people.

_“Armie, Armie, Armie,”_ Timmy hisses, like a snake sitting at the base of Armie’s spine. His voice is low, standing over Armie, leaning his entire weight on him. He presses Armie’s cheek hard, against the desk in front of him, _“You’re mine and there’s nothing you can do about it.”_

14 months ago, this never would have happened. 14 months ago, Armie could have easily overpowered Timmy’s 150-lbs-soaken-wet frame, pinning him against the wall, forearm at his throat, telling him to fuck right off. 14 months ago, the tables were turned. Now Armie’s practically wiping Timmy’s ass with a smile on his face while Timmy degrades him with his personal jabs, professional blows, and an affinity for violence.

But Timmy’s right.

            Armie can’t walk out.

            He can’t quit.

            He can’t look the other way.

            He can’t tell anyone about it.

**After all, Timmy’s not the only one with deep, dark, secrets.**

**Armie should know, Timmy’s keeping one of his.**


	2. The Lion’s Outside Your Door, the Wolf’s in Your Bed

*Present*

**_“And both the wolf and lion_ **  
**_crave the same thing in the end”_ **

Light peers into his hotel room through the palm trees outside, extending itself over Armie’s restless body. Summertime in LA rolls through the area like an unrelenting thunderstorm. Cool mornings fade to hazy sunlit stifling hot afternoons making it almost unbearable to live in the city. The only coherent thought registering in his mind, as the light sneaks through the broken slat in the blinds covering the window, is that it’s way too fucking early to be this obnoxiously bright. He rolls over onto his stomach, grimacing at the clock on the bedside table reading 6:00 in glowing bright green numbers, the same color as the Nyquil he gladly chugged last night in attempt to submerge his racing thoughts into liquid unconsciousness. Best sleep he’s ever had without a cold and an aching body.

He rolls to his back and closes his eyes, a hand rubbing over his face, wiping the sweat from his forehead.  “Deep breaths,” he closes his eyes, forcing large bursts of air in and out of his lungs multiple times, an attempt to find some sort of solace in being alone in a hotel room.

 This is not the life he pictured. Days of press, mixed in with nights of filming commentaries and interviews for DVD extras, never in the same city for more than a few hours at a time. He finds difficulty rationalizing the person he was, the person he wants to be, and the person he is. _How do you convince yourself that you’re a good father, or a good husband when you haven’t seen your family in weeks? When you were busy fucking someone else in an adjacent hotel room?_ He picks open his own wounds in the comfort of his own mind—a running collection of thoughts, inappropriate and profane. He’s a cold metal machine dressed in designer sweaters, wearing this façade of a smile, despondent and distracted. 

It could have been any other movie, any other cast, any other sort of ‘wrong place, wrong time’ scenario, and he could have separated himself from it. _What’s one movie with someone you aren’t fond of?_ That was the proverbial question he had heard all throughout filming. _6 more weeks, grit your teeth and swallow your pride_. And instead, he got caught up, surrounded himself with the charisma of Timothee Chalamet and followed him down a rabbit hole of bad decisions. He expected secrecy, trust, respect, and was met instead with manipulation, deceit, and something all-around sinister.

Armie sits up and cracks his neck and knuckles. He throws the sheets off of his body, getting up to stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom. The harsh fluorescent lights draw his attention to the black and blue spider web of bruising running from his shoulder down his ribcage. In any other situation, he’d put Timmy through the fucking floor, his 6’5’’ stature towering over Timmy, almost twice his weight, beating him within an inch of his life. Nothing would feel more gratifying—watching blood pour from his nose and mouth, spitting his teeth onto the floor underneath him. But Timmy could—would—talk. And the idea of of Timmy exposing his secrets makes his skin crawl.

 In all of this chaos, one thing remains constant; his utter disgust and contempt for Timothee Chalamet. Just hearing his pretentious fucking name makes Armie’s jaw tighten, and fists clench. He has no idea who Timmy really is, from his charming as fuck mama’s boy exterior, sugar coating his fits of rage and unhinged anger. He used to know him as well as the back of his hand, but it’s been months since he’s lost sight of him.

Armie is ripped from his thoughts by the familiar ringtone, a chuckle escaping his lips as the theme from “jaws” echoes through the hotel room, Timmy’s face flashing on the screen. If he’s going to work with the mortal form of Satan, he might as well have fun with it.

“It’s 6:30,” Armie answers the phone, attitude already lingering on his words as he speaks slowly, “press starts at 9, you have no reason to be calling me.”

“Put it on my tab,” he mutters into the phone, “I know what time it is, but I’ve got a few crazed fans standing outside my gate. Can you stop by and scare them away?”

 “Are you fucking with me right now?” he asks in disbelief, “they are 12 years old.”

 “I’ll give you 50 bucks and cut you a break today.” He retorts into the phone. It lingers on Armie’s mind for longer than it should, and Timmy knows it. Just another manipulative move and his part, and Armie takes the bait.

“100. And you keep at least 20 feet away from me at all times,” Armie agrees, “I’ll be there in 30.”

“Done.” Timmy hangs up, with no proper goodbye.

_**“The Lion’s outside your door** _  
_**The wolf’s in your bed."** _


	3. Chapter 3: The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot

_*Past*_

_**"A crown of gold** _  
_**A heart that's harder than stone** _  
_**And it hurts a whole lot, but it's missed when it's gone"** _

** How to be a successful actor **

  1. Join theater club and play productions in high school
  2. Build up an acting resume
  3. Hire an Agent
  4. Read a script
  5. Audition
  6. Pray to the acting gods
  7. Repeat until you get a part
  8. Profit



Armie presses the palms of his hands into his eyes as he sits in a stale white-walled office outside his fifth audition of the day, foot anxiously tapping against the tile floor. _Glamourous life, party of one_. Something about taking the role in the Man from U.N.C.L.E had him more hopeful for future parts, but after running lines 5 times, each time with an actress less charismatic than the last, his last ounce of sanity hangs on by a thread. _So, this is what being a 30-something’s b-list actor means._ His agent had promised him more opportunities, but the scripts were boring and the roles lackluster. Sure, he could stand to support his family taking a shitty role just for the income, but none of these auditions were going to make it Sundance, let alone gather awards buzz. Nothing like proving his mother right, and spending time away from his family with nothing but a paycheck to show for it. Acting had been about money for a while, when he first started acting, taking small roles to pay the rent, but it had always had an underlying passion to dive deep into characters far different from himself and tell their stories.

“I know what you’re going to say…acting is a marathon not a race” he answers his agent’s phone call, rubbing his hand over his face, “but this is getting---”

“Armie, where are you right now?” his agent cuts him off midsentence, urgency in his voice.

“You should know, you set me up with this audition.” He grimaces, “or do you wholeheartedly not care about my career?”

“It’s Italy,” He states, “It’s finally happening. Luca’s there, he wants you for Oliver. How soon can you get on a plane?”

It’s been years since he started milling over that part, having meetings on meetings with unanswered questions and vague details. It felt like a pipe dream every time he discussed or thought about it, not something that would ever come to fruition. And he had accepted it. There hadn’t been a decision on a director or an agreement on the screenplay. He hadn’t been sure that he was the first choice for the part, but it felt like they had been more concerned about who would play Elio, which seemed fitting seeing as how the story was told from his unreliable point of view. He had waited more than enough time, putting off small roles in movies to reserve space in case it ever came back around, but it never did. And just as he had been ready to give up, everything started coming up Italy.

Three months. Three months in Italy for filming, two weeks of prep, and after filming commenced, a short break before press. A big decision to make in midst of adulthood, nights spent up into the early hours of the morning with Liz trying to figure how they could co-parent via skype all the while working on their relationship while he was away. They had agreed that it was too far to commute back and forth, especially for a toddler, and that three months didn’t feel like that long, considering she couldn’t also put her life on hold. They had done it before, of course in closer quarters, but they had agreed on the three months, with one visit midway through filming.  It had never been a decision to really veto, in his mind. A chance to work on a project with so much riding on it was almost too good to be true. All of this to make it off of the b-list, to be remembered as something more than a white guy with a strong jaw.

He left on a Friday night and arrived jet-lagged as fuck on a Sunday morning. The time zones felt less forgiving this time around. Dark circles under his eyes, not enough coffee in the world to help him function, but he scrounged enough energy to make it to the set to meet everyone, make a good impression, and lay eyes on his tongue-wrestling partner for the next three months.

He's out of the car and facing the villa by 10am. It’s everything he had pictured from the book, maybe even more beautiful. This is where people fall in love. This is where you find yourself. Stone walls, high ceilings, beautiful entryways, trees as far as the eye can see. It’s amazing anyone actually lives here during the year. It’s a wonder Oliver could ever leave. He enters through the back, looking around for anyone who is expecting him. Instead, he’s greeted with the sound of the piano, playing the same 4 bars of a song over and over again, each time more correct than the last. Elio in his element. He has no idea whose fingers are playing those keys, but as soon as he comes face to face with him, he can’t imagine anyone else.

“Armie!” Luca stands from where he is sitting on the window ledge, arms extended, glad to see him “I’m so happy you made it.”

“Thank you for making this happens,” he replies, shaking Luca’s hand. He turns to the piano.

“Timothee, this is Armie,” the tall lanky 22-year-old stands up to shake his hand, “Armie, Timothee.”

“May I bring your things up to your room?” he mocks his own lines, nodding to Armie’s suitcase, smiling at him, “my room?”

“I’m going to need less polite Elio, more let’s fucking rage Elio” Armie nods back, gauging Timmy’s personality, “if we’re going to survive three months together.”

“Get ready for your dance scene, lover boy” Timmy laughs at Armie, hitting ‘love my way’ onto the loudspeaker, shimmying his shoulders in response.

“You’ve got 20 minutes left in your lesson,” Timmy’s piano instructor seems less than enthused, and Timmy turns around, apologizing, turning off the music. His eyes meet Armies, a smirk across his face, before he returns his attention to the music in front of him.

_Well this was going to be fun._

**_"Call me a safe bet,  
I'm betting i'm not"_ **


End file.
